Dad Is Fat (17 page)

Other people’s children’s birthday parties are the most joyful events you will ever resent having to attend. The reality of the sheer quantity of birthday parties you will be attending kicks in around kindergarten. It will seem like every kid in your children’s class has a birthday at least once a year. Can you believe that? Birthday parties trickle in and take over like an infestation of termites eating away at your Saturdays. They are in strange locations and at inconvenient times. My daughter Marre was invited to a birthday party that started at 9 a.m. on Saturday. Yes, 9 a.m. means morning, and Saturday means weekend. I actually thought it was a joke at first. I found myself asking Marre questions like “How good of a friend are you with this strange Audrey girl?” “Wouldn’t you rather watch cartoons on Saturday morning?” “How much would someone have to pay you to not go to this party?” I was ready to tell Marre that Saturday parties before noon were against our religion until Jeannie agreed to go.

Attending a birthday party for a little kid can be pretty awkward, especially if you weren’t invited. Sometimes you aren’t invited, just your child is. These parties are called “drop-offs,” where you leave your children in the care of some frazzled strangers at a Build-A-Bear Workshop, and you walk off with just enough time to do nothing except be that creepy guy wandering around a mall with a diet Coke being tailed by a
suspicious security guard until you have to pick up your face-painted, sugar-highed puddle of a child.

Even if you only have one or two kids, by the time they are in grade school, you will have brought them to so many birthday parties it will become somewhat of a routine. After coaxing your child into crafting something resembling a card and taping it onto that poorly wrapped, regifted present from their own birthday party, you rush the overexcited kid wearing their favorite outfit out the door, and you are on your way to the party. Then you realize that you forgot the regift, so you run back to get it, and now you are late and your kid is furious at you because they feel they have now missed “the funnest part.” Upon arrival at the venue, your child runs away immediately, and you are left awkwardly holding your embarrassing present, praying that it was not originally from the kid whose birthday party it is, making small talk with parents you barely know, and trying to get through the conversation without revealing that you totally forgot their name and you don’t know who their kid is. After some games no one wants to participate in, some ugly, glue-dribbled craft your kid makes that you plan on tossing into the first dumpster you see on the way home, and the inevitable pizza, it’s time for the cake. The cake is the fat lady singing of the little-kid birthday party. The final act. The climax of the birthday party. What everyone has been waiting for. Kids love cake, and who can blame them.

Everyone loves cake, but at the other kid’s birthday party you also love cake for what it represents. The end. The time to go home. You are officially excused to leave the birthday party after the cake. It’s the last hymn at church. Sometimes
the much-anticipated exit takes a little longer because the cake has ice cream to go with it. I’m always amazed how we serve ice cream with cake at a little kid’s birthday party. “Hey, you, what would be really good with this sugar bread? Some frozen sugar milk. Now let’s give it to the four-year-olds and see how they respond. Sugar doesn’t affect children, right? We are about to hand them back to the care of their parents, anyway.” And just as you are exiting the party with your tearful, screaming, prediabetic child over your shoulder, you are handed exactly what you need for the way home. The treat bag filled with candy. I am pretty sure this is the formula that was used to prepare the young Linda Blair for filming the bed scene in
The Exorcist
.

Ice cream makes kids so happy
.

Anyone who has ever taken their babies and kids to a church, a temple, a mosque, a wedding, a funeral, or any other place of reverence understands the true meaning of torture.

Obviously I am against torture, yet I still take my kids to church.

The question remains, who am I really torturing? Am I torturing myself, because it’s virtually impossible to get a young child to sit still and listen to some old guy go on and on about metaphors they don’t understand? Am I torturing my children, because church is the opposite of a video game? Am I torturing the innocent churchgoers sitting around me trying to listen and being distracted by my kids climbing on the pews or playing peek-a-boo with them?

The answer is “All of the Above.”

Cast photo: Baptism no. 5

I empathize with my children. If you’ve never been to a Catholic Mass, don’t worry, it’s still going on, you still have time to catch it. I remember when I was a kid, I really thought that church was eight hours long. At times it felt like they were dragging church out on purpose. “Aaaaahhhhh-meeeeeen.” I remember thinking, “Amen, already. Let’s wrap it up, Padre. I got some sinning to do.” It was too early, too boring, smelled weird, and was filled with the oldest people on the planet. “How did you get here? What was Jesus like as a kid?” I used to have to do readings in church, and it was terrifying. I would never have my glasses. The words are printed so small even Superman would be nervous. And you’re reading from the Bible. It’s not like you can just make something up and improvise. “A reading from the letter of Saint Paul to the Corinthians. Uhhh. Dear Corinthians, … How was your weekend? Sure is hot here. Uh, tell Jesus ‘Hey.’ This is the word of the Lord.”

When I was growing up, just getting to church caused such anxiety in our home, it seemed to defeat the purpose. Sunday mornings, my dad would bark, “Hurry up or we’re going to be late for church, God dammit!” At that age, church to me was all about strict obedience, uncomfortable clothes, and memorization. I remember my father glaring at me during Mass to see if I knew my prayers.

Even now I find myself dreading going to Mass. It’s not just the battle with the kids. God really should have talked to the NFL before deciding to put church on Sunday. Family church on Sunday is all Jeannie’s idea. Even if there is no way my kids can figure out what’s going on in there, Jeannie insists that the routine and the exposure to it will someday benefit them. Jeannie is very Catholic. She is like a Shiite Catholic. She’s already received her early admission to heaven.

I can never get Jeannie to leave church after Mass. “Why don’t we stay and talk to the weirdest people here?” There are definitely some serious crazies at church. Whenever I meet a real nut job at church, I am always grateful that they are going to church. Imagine how crazy they would be if they didn’t have rules to follow.

Yes, I take my five children to church because I, too, am one of those crazies. Kids are way too noisy for church, and everyone reminds you of that while your children are acting up by turning their head around to look at you. This in turn makes everyone else turn their head around to look at you. As if looking at you is somehow going to make your kids behave instead of just making you feel horrible. No matter how much talking or singing there is at church, kids always find that brief moment
of silence to make a loud announcement. “Michael did a poop in his diaper!” Also, if you take your kid to the bathroom at church one time, every time you take them to church, they will constantly tell you they have to go to the bathroom. They don’t need to go to the bathroom, they just need a break from church. And they know you have to take them. They know you live in fear of saying no because that one time you do say no will be the one time they actually do need to go to the bathroom, and then you will really be up that creek you can’t talk about in church. So you continue to take them to the bathroom, and deep down you don’t mind, because you also need a break from church.

This is an actual photo from the Bible. No, really
.

Then there is the spectacle of carrying your misbehaving child out of church and taking them to the back until they quiet down. This is another dilemma, because taking them to the back is actually a reward for them, and it just encourages them to misbehave more often.

I don’t want them to view church as a punishment. I do see the value in routine, tradition, and family time. I have tried to give them positive associations with going to church by offering the kids a treat after church as an incentive to behave: “If you are good in church, we will go out for pancakes.” This also backfires, because once you mention pancakes, that’s all they are going to think about and therefore talk about during the entirety of the church service. “Is it time for pancakes yet? Can I have syrup on my pancakes? Are there chocolate chip pancakes?” [
To a parishioner:
] “We are going for PANCAKES!”

There is no way your small child is going to have a spiritual experience at church. The only times I have ever had a spiritual experience at church are when my kids were
not
at church. I think I may have heard the voice of God say, “Thanks for not bringing your kids to church.”

When you first have a baby, it seems like all your friends, siblings, and even sometimes strangers want to help. “Hey, if you ever need someone to babysit, let me know.” It actually appears as if everyone is begging to watch your kids. What a relief! It takes a village, right? A very short time later, you will realize that, in reality, no one wants to babysit or even help at all. They just want to say they offered.
Offering
is the kind gesture. Fine. Whatever. I don’t need your help anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want some weirdo or relative watching my new baby. I am the parent, and I am not looking to outsource, thank you. I am an American, buddy!

Eventually the need for a babysitter creeps in as sneakily as reality TV took over and ruined prime time. Inevitably you are forced to give up the naive belief that you will be with your child every moment of their life. You need help. The question
is, who should watch your angel? Who could ever be worthy of the all-important task of sitting in your apartment while your child sleeps?

The go-to is your parents. You know they are not serial killers. They want to see their grandchild, and you don’t want to pay anyone. The perfect situation! The problem is, when you are not paying someone to do a favor for you, they don’t really need to listen to you. “No candy” means “Your heartless parents don’t give you candy, so I will give you tons of candy so you will like me better than your parents.” Also your mom and dad are crazy. They raised you, and you are a disaster! By letting them watch your kids, you are giving them free rein to replicate their mistakes. To make matters worse, by the time your parents are grandparents, they are not equipped to deal with children. I know my parents wouldn’t be good at babysitting, mostly because they’ve been dead for a decade. Actually they might be better at it now. Do less damage.

Initially letting someone that is not you or your spouse watch your child is nerve-racking. You check in, remind them to pay attention, and eventually you cut your obligation short to race home to your newborn. The free babysitters are brief. You go through your parents, your siblings, and the rare friend who is not an alcoholic. You then must hire some stranger to watch your prized possessions and also your kids. See what I did there? Kind of funny, right? Well, I thought it was.